


who's gonna drive you home tonight

by brahe, TheDeadAreWalking



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Introspection, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, character injury, gun shot wound, michael has an emotional crisis, non-graphic injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDeadAreWalking/pseuds/TheDeadAreWalking
Summary: The shot is loud. It rings out into the silent night, disturbing everything, like a stone thrown into the still water of a lake. Michael looks down at himself, expecting to see blood slowly spreading over his shirt, but there’s nothing. His shirt looks just as clean now as when he’d put it on this morning. He furrows his brows, looks back up and to the crowd, all of them standing so still, staring, staring at –"Michael?"





	who's gonna drive you home tonight

**Author's Note:**

> THE BULLSHIT TRAIN HAS ARRIVED W ITS FIRST FIC
> 
> we really wrote this bitch in less than two days aksksjg
> 
> shout out to the discord server for tolerating our bs
> 
>  
> 
> title from drive by the cars

It’s a small crowd, but there’s three of them with guns, and that sets Michael on edge – the tension’s thick and growing and he can feel it coming to a head any second now. Michael knows he has to be careful, has to watch his movements and his words closely.

 

“Come, now, boys,” he says, “we don’t wanna start anything, right?” He holds his hands up, steps towards Allen just a little, trying to get in front of him without making it obvious. “This is all just a big misunderstanding.”

 

“Doesn’t seem like a misunderstandin’ to me,” one of the men with a gun says, hiking the weapon up just a little. “We told you fellas to stay out of it.”

 

Michael takes a step forward. “Now, you don't want to do anything rash. We’re from –”

 

The shot is loud. It rings out into the silent night, disturbing everything, like a stone thrown into the still water of a lake. Michael looks down at himself, expecting to see blood slowly spreading over his shirt, but there’s nothing. His shirt looks just as clean now as when he’d put it on this morning. He furrows his brows, looks back up and to the crowd, all of them standing so still, staring, staring at –

 

“Michael?” 

 

The voice calling him sounds so small, so helpless.

 

Michael puts everything together in one excruciating heartbeat. He turns, already reaching for Allen, his world screeching to a crawl, his gaze narrowing to the red spots soaking through Allen’s shirt and growing quick. “Allen,” he says, and it sounds like a scream in his ears but it’s barely louder than a whisper. He’s never heard his own voice sound like that, so close and so far away at the same time, so absolutely wrecked, torn by emotion.

 

Allen stumbles towards him, then, hand reaching for Michael, covered in red, and before Michael’s even aware of it, he’s moving. Practically running the short distance to Allen to catch him just as he falls. Allen’s trembling hands come to clamp over Michael’s arms and Michael’s careful to keep his own light, gentle. He doesn’t want to hurt Allen any more, barely wants to touch him for fear of causing him pain.

 

“Allen, Allen, Allen,” Michael says, repeats like a mantra, or maybe it’s a prayer, a plea. He’s never been a religious man, but right now – anything. Anything. Allen’s hands tighten their grip, so tight Michael’s sure he’ll have two hand-shaped bruises on each arm, but – but that means Allen’s conscious, awake to feel the pain, but it also means he’s awake to feel the pain.

 

Allen’s looking at him, eyes big, wide, full of pain, and fear. Michael’s heart stops, then, and the world, too, nothing existing outside of his own fear and anger in that moment. The only thing he can hear through the ringing in his ears is Allen’s breathing, harsh and hard, stuttering.

 

“Michael, I...” Allen calls, gasps, and it’s like a switch has been thrown, his mind coming back on. Michael hushes him, sits them down carefully, Allen’s head cradled in his lap.

 

“Ambulance, someone get an ambulance,” Michael says, shouts, probably, but he doesn’t look away from Allen, can’t – everything he is is focused here, on Allen, on keeping him alive. Michael takes a shuddering breath, trying to remember his training, his experience, because he’s been here before, but it’s never been like this, never been someone he cared so much about bleeding out in his arms.

 

Focus, he tells himself, doing his best to separate Allen from the situation, to separate his own feelings so he can do something, anything. He runs his fingers of one hand through Allen’s hair, calming, grounding Allen – and himself – and searches for the wound with the other hand, gently and carefully prodding until he finds it. It’s on the side of Allen’s torso, almost far enough over to have been a graze. Michael tells himself that’s good, that’s treatable – that’s not the lungs, the liver, the heart – though it doesn’t help much.

 

He shucks his jacket off, then, balling it up to press against the wound. Allen arches up at the pressure and lets out a pained sound Michael never, ever wants to hear again, something like a whimper, so full of anguish. Michael leans over him and returns his hand to Allen’s hair, stroking over and over, trying not to watch blood soak his once clean jacket. So much blood.

 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Michael tells him, keeping his voice low. “I got you, I got you.” He repeats it over and over until there’s hands at his shoulder, his arm, and they’re pulling him away, tugging at him. He viciously shakes them off, jerking his arms away and curls closer around Allen, protecting him from these strangers, as if he can save Allen through his own righteous determination alone. 

 

“Don’t touch him!” he shouts, looking up only to see that the ambulance has arrived. The attendant’s trying to get Michael’s attention, trying to get to Allen, and Michael lets himself finally be moved, standing next to the attendant.

 

“Help me move him,” the attendant says, and Michael gets his arms carefully under Allen’s shoulders. He murmurs to Allen, trying to tell him what’s going on, apologizing when Allen groans at the movement.

 

The attendant’s asking him questions, Michael realizes, but he can’t focus on them, not when he’s got Allen’s life in his hands, not when he sees the puddle of blood on the road. He helps them settle Allen into the back of the ambulance, then moves to get into the car with him, because there’s no way he’s staying behind, no way he’s letting Allen out of his sight, when a hand stops him. 

 

“Son, I’m afraid you have to stay until I get some answers as to what happened here,” the cop who’s holding him back says. Michael looks him over, debating his options, before he rips his arm away, jumping into the back of the car with Allen. 

 

He tells the driver to go, go now, because they’ve already wasted so much time. The attendant in the back with Michael starts to protest, but he quiets after Michael settles a glare on him. “Go!” he shouts, and he sounds absolutely wrecked – he can’t even begin to imagine what he must look like.

 

As the car starts up and they begin to drive, Michael feels like he slips into some kind of waking dream, nightmare. He keep his eyes on Allen, who’s closed his eyes, probably passed out; follows with his eyes the pieces of Allen’s hair against the white of the stretcher, the lines on his face, pinched in pain. He watches the landscape fly by from the corner of his eye as they drive, and the next thing he’s truly aware of is the back of the car opening. They’ve arrived at the hospital, and he quickly gets out of the way, hovering as they cart Allen into the building, shouting things to each other Michael doesn’t have the wherewithal to comprehend. The overwhelming smell of bleach hits him, making his stomach curl.

 

He walks with Allen, keeping pace, mumbling meaningless comforts to him. “Hey, hey,” he says, and Allen’s eyes flutter open to squint at him, hazy and unaware. “We’re at the hospital. It’s okay. You’re going to be good as new, ya hear?” Allen blinks at him, slipping in and out of lucidity.

 

They wheel him through a set of swinging doors, clearly meant to keep Michael out, but he tries to follow, anyway, stopped only by gentle hands on his chest, pushing him away and back into the hallway.

 

“No, I have to – I have to –” he tries, too caught up to finish a real thought. The nurse who’s holding him in the hallway tilts her head at him as something settling soft on her features.

 

“Come on, hon,” she says, soothing, as if talking to a wounded animal. “He’s gonna be okay, but we gotta get you cleaned up.” She starts to guide him to the restroom down the hall, one hand on his arm and one around his back, urging him on. “Trust me, he’s gonna be okay,” the nurse tells him again when she catches Michael throwing glances at the door Allen disappeared into. “Dr. Kline’s very good at this kind of thing. You just wash up and get some coffee, alright?” 

 

Michael’s nodding, not really sure he has another option, and then the nurse leaves him at the men’s room. He heads for the sink, turning the water up hot and scrubbing at his hands – soap, scrub, water, repeat – watching the water run red from his hands, mind wandering to Allen, worrying, scenes coming up unbidden of what ifs – what if the ambulance never came – soap, scrub, water, repeat – what if the wound was somewhere else – soap, scrub, water, repeat – what if, what if, what if – soap, scrub, water, repeat – 

 

It builds and builds until his hands shake so hard his shirt’s getting wet and he slams the water off. Hands gripping the edges of the sink so hard he hears the porcelain creak, leaning over the sink, panting hard; he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, finally, and he’s never looked like this before – his eyes are halfway to bloodshot, the bags under them dark and pronounced; his hair is a wild, untamed mess; and his cheeks shine just a bit in the light, twin tracks from his eyes to his chin, and he tries to remember when that happened, when he cried, but he can’t. 

 

He stands there for what feels like a small eternity. The shaking eases slowly but doesnt stop as he tries to get himself under control. He finishes washing his hands – is it just him, or are they tinged red? – and they’re still shaking when he leaves the bathroom, still shaking when he takes a seat in the waiting room, still shaking when he buries his face in them and tries not to think about anything.

 

The nurse from before comes to get him at some point – it’s been a few hours, Michael realizes with a start – brings him back to the present with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey there,” she says, “you can go in to see him now if you like.” Michael stands so fast his head spins, and the nurse laughs, a soft, light sound. “Follow me, hon.”

 

She leads him through a set of doors and down a hallway. She stops at a door that looks just like all the other ones and motions to it. “He’ll probably be asleep for the next couple hours,” the nurse tells him. “But you’re welcome to sit in there long as you like.”

 

“Thank you,” Michael says, and his voice sounds much rougher than he expected it to. 

 

The nurse gives him a smile and turns to walk away before hesitating, turning back. “You know, he’s lucky to have a,” she pauses and looks between the door and Michael before deciding on something, “a friend like you. Not everyone has someone in their life like that.”

 

Michael pauses for a moment to watch her leave before opening the door. Allen’s room is still and quiet – two things Michael often associates with him, but this feels wrong. Allen’s still and quiet is still so full of life, like a firecracker waiting to be lit, but this is different, unnatural. He feels a sense of dread and unease washing over him.

 

There’s chair on the far side of the room, but he doesn’t sit, not yet. He stands in the corner of the room, back against the wall, and simply watches Allen breathe, in, out, in, out, he tells himself in time with his breathing that he’s alive, he’s okay, he’ll be fine. The nausea fades slightly. 

 

Allen shifts in his sleep, face scrunching up for a moment and Michael begins to move, pulling the chair from the side of the room up to the side of his bed. He settles into the uncomfortable chair and leans his elbows on the edge of the mattress. He closes his eyes, focuses his attention on the sound of Allen’s breathing. He lets it wash over him, and for the first time in however long it’s been, he feels calm. His brain feels sluggish and tired, and he can barely even begin to think about everything that had happened today; it all feels distant, like a dream, or rather, a nightmare.

 

He feels a change in the mattress and opens his eyes. Allen’s waking up slowly – he shifts, takes a deep breath and lets it out quickly with a wince. He blinks his eyes open and squints against the near blinding white lights. His gaze lands on Michael and the breath Michael takes is so shaky. “Don’t you fucking dare do that again,” he tells Allen, low and rough. “You scared the shit outta me.”

 

Allen just looks at him for a while, blinking slow. “But I’m okay now,” he says voice sounding choked and dry. Michael looks for something to get him and sees a glass of water resting on the side table. “And so are you.”

 

Michael shakes his head, sighs. He hands Allen the cup of water which he takes slowly and sips at. Michael takes it when he’s done and sets it back down. “How do you even know if you’re okay? You’ve been awake for less than two minutes.”

 

Allen gives him a weak smile. “If I wasn’t, this conversation would be a whole lot different,” Allen tells him. It’s Michael’s turn to simply blink at Allen and he watches his eyes flutter closed. His head rolls back on the pillow, face towards the ceiling. “I know you by now,” he adds, voice soft like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud and then he’s asleep again, as if he hadn't even been awake and Michael’s left with that.

 

I know you by now, he said, and Michael hadn’t realized how true it’s become until now, sitting here at Allen’s beside, not quite rid of the fear. The could have beens and maybes still spinning around his head. That could’ve been it, the end, everything over in the blink of an eye just like that – the thought makes Michael’s heart race, but he reaches for Allen, threads his fingers through Allen’s, and it calms him, the physical reminder that Allen’s alive and okay and right here. New thoughts spin in his head; he thinks about what his life with Allen, what it could be. He doesn’t think he could go back to a time without him. He’s become so quickly ingrained in every aspect of Michael’s life – Allen means something to him, he’s not quite sure he’s ready to name it yet, but it’s deep and all-consuming. He needs a cigarette. 

 

When Allen wakes up the next time, Michael doesn’t notice until he starts talking. “Stop worrying about me,” Allen says, and Michael’s attention snaps to him. Allen rolls his head to the side, cracking an eye open at Michael.

 

“Yeah, right,” Michael scoffs. “That’ll never happen.”

 

Allen sighs, light and shallow, and there’s something humorous under the resigned look on his face. “Well, I guess there are worse people to have looking after me,” he jokes. It’s meant to be a lighthearted statement, Michael knows this, but there’s something in the words, something heavier, but before he can say anything, Allen’s reaching for him. Michael takes his hand in both of his own and wraps their hands together. Hesitatingly, he brings them to his lips. When Allen doesn’t pull away he lightly presses a kiss to them.

 

“How long has it been?” Allen asks looking around the room for a clock or something to indicate how much time has passed. “When’s the last time you slept?”

 

“A few hours,” Michael replies. It’s been more than a few hours, all of which he spent awake, but Allen doesn't need to know that right now. “I took a nap, don’t worry about it.”

 

Allen eyes him warily, catching the obvious lie, but deciding not push it. “Alright, good. When can I get out of this place, then?”

 

Michael laughs at the ridiculousness of the question and squeezes Allen’s hand. Only Allen would wake up from being shot and immediately ask when he can leave. “I’ll ask the nurses, okay?”

 

The answer turned out to be another week, while they watch the wound for infection and make sure nothing amiss rises. The days crawl by, but finally Michael pulls the car up to the front of the hospital, and he leaps out when he sees Allen, gingerly walking himself out. “Hey!” Michael shouts, practically running around the car to Allen, “Hey, I thought I told you to wait for me!”

 

“I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself, thank you very much,” Allen says, waving Michael off as he comes up beside him, wrapping an around around him to help him into the car. He lets out a small gasp as he tries to lower himself into the passenger's seat, and Michael immediately holds him steady, eases him in.

 

“Oh, I can see you’re very capable, doc,” Michael jokes, but feels his chest tighten with worry.

 

“Ha, ha,” Allen says back, grumbling. Michael closes the door for him and goes around, sliding into the driver’s seat. He starts the car and leaves the awful building in the rear window. He can't help but keep stealing glances at Allen as he drives, not wanting to look away for too long. Allen catches onto him when they’re halfway to the hotel.

 

“Nothing’s going to happen to me in the sixty seconds you’re looking away,” Allen tells him. “You're more likely to hurt us by looking away from the road and crashing the car.” Michael looks at him again, longer this time, brows furrowed before focusing back on the road. 

 

“But something did happen,” he says, quiet, and Allen doesn’t say anything back, the silence between them thick and heavy. Michael’s eyes burn and he tells himself it’s lack of sleep, but he knows it’s more than that. He feels a tear fall down his face without his permission and angrily wipes it away before more threaten to follow its led. 

 

Allen reaches for him across the bench seat, in search of Michael's hand. When he finds it he slowly threads their fingers together, resting them on the seat between them, and they stay like that for the rest of the drive. Michael isn't sure what it means, but as his heart rate settles and the tears dissipate, he can't help but be thankful. 

 

When they pull up to the motel, he doesn't want to move. He takes his hand away slowly. “We’re here,” he announces lamely, hoping his voice sounds steady, but even to his own ears he can hear a tremor in the words. 

 

“I can see that,” Allen replies and goes to open the door. 

 

“Don't!” Michael shouts a little too loud. He lowers his voice to a near whisper, “Just...please don't. Let me get it. Let me help you.” Allen slowly retracts his hand and nods. Michael takes a shaky breath and gets out, walks to the other side and opens the door. “Here, give me your hand.”

 

Allen’s hand is warm in his, and his grip tightens when he swings his legs around to stand. Once Michael has Allen out of the car, he kicks the door shut and moves them to the motel door. He fumbles for the keys before unlocking the door, and Michael can’t help but think the room seems odd, different, somehow, as they walk in. They've been staying here for two weeks, trying to close the case, but now the room feels smaller. Michael thinks maybe it's because he’s been here alone for the last several days, but that can’t be it – he's spent most of his time at the hospital. 

 

“Let's get you back in bed,” Michael urges. 

 

“Just let me sit,” Allen protests. “I've been laying in bed for days. I'm beyond sick of it.”

 

Michael ignores him. “Doctor’s orders, doc. Bed rest for at least three more days before you can even think about being up and about.”

 

“Fine,” Allen gives in. Michael nods and helps him settle into bed. Once Allen is safely in bed, he isn't sure what to do with himself. He nervously stands at the edge of the bed; he's spent the last few days doing nothing but worry, and he feels like he should be able to calm down now, but he still feels a sense of urgency and fear running through him. 

 

Michael notices he's been standing and staring at the wall for too long to be normal. Is there a normal amount of time to stare at a wall?

 

Allen cautiously reaches a hand out and takes his. “Come here.” Michael stares down at him and Allen tugs his hand. “Michael, come here.”

 

Michael helplessly follows his order and sets himself down on the edge of the bed. They fall into a silence that finally feels comfortable. Michael is distantly aware that Allen's thumb is lightly stroking his hand. 

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Michael whispers. From Allen's sigh, he's sure that it's the thousandth time he's asked that. Allen gently pulls the hand he's holding and settles it on his own chest, Michael’s palm flat over his heart, the beat steady under his palm. 

 

“See?” Allen says, holding his gaze, and Michael thinks he could drown in the deep blue of his eyes. “You saved me,” he tells him, and Michael sucks in a gasp, sharp, because, yes, maybe, that’s true, but what if it’s not, what if –

 

Allen tightens his grip on Michael’s hand, and Michael feels Allen’s heart beat just a little faster. “Michael,” he says, voice full of something Michael doesn’t have a name for. “You saved me,” he repeats, slow and carefully enunciated. “I’m okay. I’m here. We’re here. We’re okay. Michael, we’re okay.”

 

He’s reaching for Michael with his other hand, now, his hand curling around his neck and he lightly tugs Michael down and down, until he can feel his breath ghost across his face; and then Allen is kissing him, short and sweet, just a press of dry lips against his own, and it's over before Michael really knows it’s happening.

 

Allen doesn’t let go of him, though. He keeps his hand on his neck and presses their foreheads together. “You saved me,” he says, again, a whisper, a reminder, a promise for the future, and Michael chokes on a sob. Everything’s catching up to him all at once. Allen moves his fingers from Michael's neck to run through his hair, and Michael leans into the touch, closes his eyes. “It’s okay, we’re okay.” 

 

“I should be the one comforting you,” Michael says, a little shaky, and Allen laughs, and it’s a little shaky, too.

 

“You are,” Allen tells him. “Lay with me.”

 

Michael raises an eyebrow but doesn't protest. He toes off his shoes and stands to take his jacket, hat, and button-up off. He can feel Allen watching him and hopes he doesn't notice him fumbling with the buttons. He pauses at his belt and turns back to Allen. “Should I–?”

 

A light blush spreads along his face, and he nods. “Might as well,” he says, and Michael gives a jerky nod and shimmies out of his pants. He feels odd standing there in just his boxers and undershirt but Allen doesn't seem to think so as he says, “Come on, lay down.”

 

Michael crawls into the bed, careful not to move the mattress too much and end up hurting Allen. He stiffly lays beside the older man, unsure what to do. “Is this okay?” he asks nervously. 

 

Allen doesn’t answer, but turns as much as he can and reaches for Michael, pulling him closer. This close, he could feel the heat radiating from his body, warm and comforting. Allen gently shifts them around until Michael finds himself curled against Allen’s side with his head resting on his chest. 

 

He listens to the steady beat of his heart and feels Allen’s hands shift through his hair, gently running through the strands, and finally he lets go of everything that’s been consuming him for days, because Allen’s here. Allen’s here in bed with him, alive and breathing. 

 

“I think I love you,” he admits, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them. He hadn't even been thinking them, he's not sure where they came from, but now that he's said them he knows they're true. He knows all the worry and fear he'd felt these past few days proves it. He'd seen friends get hurt, seen them die, but he’d never felt what he'd just went through. 

 

The hand in his air pauses for a moment before starting back up. “Good,” Allen whispers, “because I think I do, too.”

 

They say nothing else, and Michael lets the exhaustion finally pull him under. He falls asleep to the steady rise and fall of Allen’s breathing and his heartbeat, strong and steady.

 

God help the next poor soul who points a gun at Allen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The bullshit train is leaving now and we hope you enjoyed and I hope to be back with more bullshit soon. 
> 
> I want to say I had a blast writing this and I hope everyone who reads it enjoys it as much as I do. 
> 
> The pbb discord is a beautiful mess full of people screaming at each other.


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